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1 -4f 

I Mil 


juu 7IS 

moveture: the daily rushes 
by les wade 


creative commons attribution 
noncommercial share alike 3.0 

see http://creativecommons.0rg/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.o/ 
for further details or visit the creative commons homepage 
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"sign and sight is the name of a magazine" is also appearing in the i.e. 

press then release press 

like the character in phil whalen's poem "that one," i spend a lot of time at 
the movies just to get some reading done. 

moveture: the title sequence 

earlier this morning i was breaking, up. or down, all the perils of sending! 
from x-ray orange to a garish yell, and the "oh" I was going to say. or just 
lying on the floor, shaking, and noticing all the wave-like phenomena of the 
kitchen— foam and slobber and the sediments in the sound, shining, this is 
spectrum, first comes waking, then evaporation, the scenario can be so 
quick, a system of air. first it is evening, and then morning, then foam, then 
flow, then shout, then edge, this is another spectrum, the suddenness of it in 
the air that begins with a mal-de-tete, and starts to radiate outward, always 
rolling, always a road, always beginning to fill up a part of the room in a part 
of the day. i mean, ekstasis as a yellow arc against the usual checkerboard 
logic of a floor, which is a way of marking a passage, a dent, a moment to say 
"oh" to, clawing my way through the apparatus of this utterance, in the foam 
and corridors and slanting rays of the sun— this is the subject as spectrum 
who is trying to resonate with all the vast and ringing phonemes out there 
maybe as lost in inferential string elemental to ephemeral in the fragile curve 
of space, the distance of breaking and announcing— first edge, then leap, or 
down, one room crashing into another, and then there is that terrible 
brightness, glaringly young, and how primary the gesture of flinging the 
words out there out there into space really is, so full of contours and 
intersections and creases and there's pagination all over the kitchen table, i 
guess i'm having a moment— a brilliant gap filled afterthought add-on 
kitchenette playing with the on/off switch off and on the last migrained 
monday moment ovoid of pure enjambment i am imploding 
unpronounceably, and suddenly clattering down in blue, diffusing and 
panoramic— an inundation in this moment of glass where all things suddenly 
are, even before i can fit the poem on the page in the room that is the other 
side of a memory i am writing, which is the act of waking up, or fall down in, 
with the sun slicing through the lines on the paper and the blank spaces 
falling down on the floor where i'm flat on my back in the valley of linoleum 
—a sudden revelation on the question of depth as a brilliant moment of 
opening in a system of layers and surface, and how i woke up in the kitchen 
this morning with a broken head listening to the yellow curve of things and 
the seascape voice in the roar of breaking pencils, which is something like a 
prologomenon, and remembered a line from rene char "it's the turn of bread 
to break man" and there was something there about the beauty of daybreak, 
you can still hear the air vibrating, soniferous, then submerged, then flung 

out into the open not so long ago, where it begins with ocean and winds up 
stuck in amber, and there's something else all about eclipses and contours 
and shaping lines into zones and whirls and regions where i am equating 
fragment with passage in an act of surface that is a long curving beach just 
now stretching in a line from point a through a long glass interval we must 
break through to the time i was showing and telling and sending and talking 
about walking out there on the missing side of the room and bouncing back 
and forth as the hollow name of ocean. "-rroAucpAoioPoTo QaXaoaoio," i 
wanted to cry, and even sing the space of epic, like drawing a figure in the 
sand, and then get lost in all the sea smoke and the slices of the sea, the 
suddenness of it, a branching, a way through the fabled next few hours that 
are always pressing against the face for a moment and become entangled in 
the low roaring at the edge of the tune— a continuum breaking up into a 
moment and the foam and sea shell at the beginning, with the gaps in the 
story a constellation, you can still hear the air vibrating, the bright time 
between the blue lines and the pale questions at the edge of the sun. or the 
trick of it to find just the right strands of air, the strands of yellow, the 
summer corridors and documents of day that reach past the room i am 
remembering to write in and the maps of glass breaking, just as i was waking 
up somewhere in the middle of things, in the crowded passages with all the 
action going on and arms and instruments akimbo and the sound of 
humming on the raised platform in the bell shaped openings of air and the 
disks of day shooting up from the ground, to keep on rising and expand the 
room of writing, as the hollow and egg -like spaces of ocean break open to 
show us that the tongue of land is always emerging from the sea and how the 
outside is for hiding in in the morning opened up by the gaps in all the 
pencils and the blue lines that reach from my face to yours crowded in the 
corner of the sun that is just now beginning to emerge and be unmeasured, 
an opening covering the skin as day skin is love and the first love is to get 
outside, in the wet sun in the curve of the morning rising in the throat or 
crowded into the sky in the raw sun raw tongue space the pure gesture of it 
to impart a motion a transmission ripping atmospheres apart blue and 
enormous and stepping outside 

like breaking a vessel 
an omen of good fortune 

another promise 

other day 

a set 


and back 

a way of scraping 

the words off the surface 

of the page there is always some trace 
left as outline 

to fit placelessly 

as event 

a way of letting air in 

or out of ear shot 

where i would cover myself in felt 

but not heard as an explosion 

just a peninsula 

i'm jutting out again 
and being all resurgent 
springing out of the page 

open up the book 

and it says "moo" 

or "fuck you" 

or some other awkward 


leaping off the page and weaseling it's way into the ultra-streamlined 1956 
plast-orama "DON'T PUT THAT IN YOUR MOUTH" part of the throat and 
dissolving into sharp little moronic particles of panic moment trauma 

theater playing on the soft palate grown suddenly and horribly desiccated 
where linguistic density wasn't 

(is this poem secretly about the way poison tastes in childhood?) 

tube blur as ganglia or anxiety central, vomit butterfly and vague purple— the 
sign of plague, the swiftness of its shape, except for the part that looks like 
an octopus or how an octopus looks when you're thinking about eyelids 
underwater, are we there yet? 

everything that is unsaid could be a future 

a set of possibilities 

we can unweave 

the old out and in and urge 

from periphery to center 

a space to let the words escape 

or a case of mirror resonance 

o saisons o chateaux 
what soul is rhythmless? 

emit mom time 

because it's the same backwards as it is forwards 

and there's something here about running around in circles 

and "the return to normalcy" 

where the punchline is getting to the other side of the room 
higher on a mouth then down the slippery slope or throat 
a sign that the age of manifestos is over 
and the battle for giligan's island is about to begin 

well, now that the battle's finished 

we could almost be polka-dot 
a mellotron beginning 
and alternative ending 

i mean, one minute 

i'm standing there 

and the next 

i'm only standing 

jutting out 

and being resurgent 

when i was a kid right before i tasted that poison i was looking at a wait 
disney nature special on tv about some kind of african prairie dogs that 
always traveled in packs and whenever they encountered another group of 
the same kind of prairie dog they stood in two opposing rows and barked at 
each other but if any one of them got too excited and ran even a little ways 
into the middle, he was no longer recognized as a real prairie dog by the 
members of his own group and had to make a special kind of barking sound 
and even do a little dance so they wouldn't forget him. the poison was white 
and shaped a little like a crystal. 

this of slight jargon. 

cold skin as slick turn and skin sliding in mud lip earth cup sky cup hand 
earth ear earth ash inhale world of listen in tan tree drowse outside and rain 
drum random splash dawn over drowned sweat mattress sculpture hair bark 
and swirly dream haze river time still lapping against the bedroom door in 
slow dripping light & sudden realization that i've missed my dentist 
appointment, "no laughing gas for YOU!" even though it's my birthday. 

sign and sight is the name of a magazine 

a movement. 

a pattern, the air 

is full of risings and statements. 

the flood plain is six miles long. 

a place to look at the statements 
then look away, 

like counting the statements of water. 

with a key our escape is to share oil with fire, like children. 

the key is ocher and amber, like the fire in children. 

the key is sung of children who count raw sienna, burnt umber and dust. 

pointing is at arm's length— the night has a thousand eyes! looking is always 
at the edge of the air, breaking into sight. 

at the beginning and end of the word "sight" there is a break or branching 
that slows us down with a storm of looking, a storm of fading, branching, 
here, is what a tree does. 

my assignment is to take a photograph of air and develop it with all the dust. 

the key is lost in morning. 

it turns out to be gradual. 

just singing, 

just intonation. 

"mes bouquins" 

a san francisco that comes to an end in extreme height, paralysis in force is 
a long zoom shot and being unable to sit without staring, someone dies and 
there is an obsession with falling and a trance-like stickiness covering all the 
streets and buildings and even the sky as it is turning noticeably blue and 
flat, "it" here could be the sky and here as aspirant, a kind of panting sound 
— h-h-h— and now it's winter, but back then it was September, and 
September was something you found inside of a song, there was an 
eagerness on the horizon and a jumping into water, which also turns out to 
be blue and flat, and oblong, and a portrait that was first seen far away and 
then close up. the walls have a heavy, stucco-like texture, and all the rooms 
that have these walls could be made out of brocade, in fact, brocade itself is 
heavy, stiff, and elaborately worked. 

a long trip through the city and a clockwork departure, advise the forest- 
there are symptoms of dream and gesture left unexplained, a long return 
when all the bells start ringing, what was said through a window, at the end 
of a corridor you can see why stairs are so sinister, a way of revealing the 
frame, and how the eye is everywhere overturned, then the distance turns 
black and there is only a visitor, the music interrupts, but in another room. 

unseen approach, does love? a figure, an unstable face, some hint of the 
subject remains, the name of a small town in kansas, torn paper, an 
aquamarine dress, and the inevitable, then the necklace is found lying on a 
dresser and everything comes into focus, flashing, there was another trip 
through the city, somewhere to the south, the height of the beginning, the 
return of looking, a flicker at the edge, and looking upward again, to 
consider what transmits the light so poorly, the heat so opaque in the dark, 
the raw silk and pure visage of it, about to incline horribly, the moment is 
parallel, the discovery is too gray and circling, a journey in lead, a journey in 
evening, a time of return and turn again, turn where she go, all the way, 
where the houses end, like light. 

luftmenschi: shooting the symbolic 

greater coverts, lesser coverts, 
breast, throat, shoulder, upper 
mandible, lower mandible, 
i-mean-business mandible, 
middle shoulder, three- 
quarters shoulder, upper tail 
coverts, back of the head, back 
of the neck, "feathers," 
wooden protuberance, motion 
lines, hot dog mandibles, vinyl 
mustard packet, vinyl ketchup 
packet, duck corrugations 

stuck inside all day and some of us were sitting in a room of glaring white 
and some were in another room of glaring white without any wall or divider 
or door to mark one room off from the next, and everyone (everyone, of 
course, except for mr. jimmy, who was asleep on the couch) was imagining it 
was a tv program about people sitting in chairs in a room glaring at screens 
and whiteness and they were arguing over which room held the audience 
and which room was just a ghostly 
projection of actors, i got up and 
asked who the sponsor was, since the 
answer to that particular question 
would end this type of foolish, 
ghostly and pale metaphysical 
speculation and we would finally be 
able to leave whatever room we were 
sitting in and breathe for a little, i 
knew that somewhere in one of the 
many books that were stacked neatly 
on the shelves there was a story 
about the necessity of leaving your 
father's house to go dwell in a city at 
the edge of the desert, and how i 

myself along with other legendary okies had to migrate to riverside, 
California, where i once saw a statue of a giant swallow that was always in the 
midst of departing, with his eyes of shattered blue, that obtrusive blue, knife- 
edge rip occurrence and exile thunder all over silver thought flight air throb 
crash escape in systolic downstroke squeeze which is pure lift, the book i was 
thinking of had a dark green cover and was part of a set, or library, but i 
don't think anyone ever owned the entire collection, the economy will always 
create these kinds of gaps in the historical record. 

things done, things said, things shown 

for serenity the speaker 

under the eaves 
or to be expressive 
and prod and passage 
and how near distance is 
on the other side of the wall 


what is the story 

they think they are telling 

the moment i pass by? 

poplar, cypress 
yellow hill 

all the places of being 


it's the motel of the mysteries... 

ah pomegranate 

and other fruit falling off of the horizon 

moveture: the intermission 

seen for the first time, the viewers are often violent, the viewers are often 
recognized, there are 11 of them, but this is no. 12 of a series. 

originally the relationship is a wooden door and a target of seen, the obverse 
of resting on the eyes, objects add mystery, what remains is John and how he 
will expand. 

John b, all looming and versatile, is grinning in the dark and knows how 
everything is full of description, the subject here is modern history staring 
you in the face— black and white on red, then later a simple brown, then a 
second time as kitsch. "oh look! a slogan!," and "the plastic! the room!" are 
the slogans one most associates with him. and swoosh! 

joan is absent. 

bread in the book, bad to the bone, the air is everyday, books and bread, 
where the lines go. 

much foaming ocean and its recombination 

floating in the air near the ear or somewhere near a chair, everyone is sitting, 

everything that is shedding, everything that is thrown down is. in a line. 

they limit and describe, they require the recognizable, "only" classical as an 
attitude, this is a concern with the darkness of the seed, it's dark 
measurement underlying the primacy of a look, and the rhythm of looking at 
it. an escape! science is everything growing from what is invisible, until it 
floats in the air. 

the colors, the floor, the hallway, the kind you, is lost in the living matter, the 
living matter goes strum strum strum, torn and torn again from the tin of 
the underworld, a few loose molecules clanging at the edges. 

a machine for stopping and staring, a throb at the blue core, bending the 

i told you there are 11 of them, the rest are gathered together in the problem 

of here, or the other problem of here, here as aeschylean silence classically 
flat and folded at the edge. 

here as an articulation of another secret here into inertial space and avoiding 
any toy-sized literalness or frame of attack in the "thinking-out" process, 
until the light changes. 

pulled pop, in waves of glue and graphed, pulled pop, stuck inside with all 
that "pulled pop" what you call moon money, and stuck, the pieces are stuck 
in the waves of blue, large and -orama. return of the rising waking up in a 
room of glare, a new organum— stuff in the pen of where we are back to the 
birth of the blue line, how to be over. 

in the 1950s the colors were beige, dark brown and charcoal gray, and 
everything was already faded and the word "chesterfield" was used a lot. in 
fact, you could sit on a chesterfield and smoke one at the same time and 
collect coupons just for doing that, that's what my "aunt " helen used to do, 
sitting on the floor and staring at pictures from life magazine, one day— and i 
still don't know what prompted her to do this— she picked up a copy of life, 
looked at it for a while, then suddenly tore some pictures out of it and let 
them fall onto the floor, then she lit up another cigarette, what really 
fascinated me was not so much the different images— tv personalities, lemon 
yellow frigidaires, snazzy convertibles, an atom bomb explosion— but how 
easy it was to tear the pictures themselves out of the pages of a magazine and 
transfer them onto the different world of the floor and how the ragged edges 
of the paper actually seemed to fit the act of rearranging all these pictures 
now lying on the blank surface of the rug. i realized that they were telling me 
the same story as the smoke circulating in the air. 

this should be skin as shining as so much is around the mouth the light in 

tiny rivulets 

in the wet and working years 


moveture, the trilogy 

who forgets the risk 

of music 

who enters under the moon 

who stands shatteringly 

the homecoming 

if the grammar of rivers is lost in the haze 

is lost in her voice 

it is the sentence of the wanderers 

(that morning we discovered the desert) 


the intimacy of the sea 

the great age of honey and copper 

sand as agency 

dune as shelter 

it begins with a box and seashells 

it begins with a box of wind, a seashell, partitions, watered glass, coral, a ball 
of ambergris, and the ocean painted in the desert where everything must 
push against that emptiness just to earn a name 

where marine becomes glyph 

hand eye arm ear 

dryness salt fog sunlight 

striated to smooth 

and the way the throat and lips move around the word "aqua" and the 
slowness it releases 

far enough away to be muffled 


the afternoon is utterance 

and the house is perfected 

with what message this shifting sends 


red night 

the arrow descends 

black sun 

waves and hot horizon 

the drugged landscape 

her anger 

her carved glance 

a tear in the clouds 

the scattered path 

they are all a way to cut through openness 

through the shining 

hard edged 

the birth of geometry 

and the uses of pointing 

moveture: garden of the fleshapoids 

white noon noise space 
and static cling 

boundary lapping 

i am extending beyond the table 
A6yo$ in/ Aoyog out 

beat casual or casual pocket 

a whole history of slouching and showing 

a face about the act of and all... 

too much of that first meat 

stretched into great lines 

and zoom in 


the aerial realm is entering your sunken living room 
your split-level den 
the weightless sublime 

a question of absorption 

or essence as inhalation 

voeTv "to know" originally meant to recognize something by its smell 
sprouting and emanating 

jade plant, elephant foot, circle plant, plum sequence, impatience, zipper 
plant, pattern plant, peppergrass, button plant, wild linen, orson's rose, 
lavalier's bud, kimono fold, flash, fossil tinge, agave, carpet weed, an ivy 
dome, soon, thin gold, thawed stars, now, the heart of the sun, pulse, and 
etudes eroding 

"got any limes, veronica?" 

a vox of glimpse 


i have sleepy teeth 

cotton mirage, gravity of baumwolle. 

my sleepy teeth are full of baumwolle. 

soggy, deep, refraining. 

and repeating: 

long view 

dent into deep, dark 

and repetitious as only teeth can be. 


and clarinet adobe, i know clarinet adobe. 

you know clarinet obligation, and sing me of clarinet surrender. 

o the lip molecules 
working large 

o the time receding from front to back 

o languorous diamond wave 
lightless dabbler warm 

a position of shadow. 


pushing the islands 

our task is to push the islands 

to earth 

to iron 

to glass 

to glyph 

to thin 

a month in the mouth 

can show the bones of the day 

moon magnet 

a box of glyphs 

the whole archive of it 

somewhere in san 


the moon fold arch 

and ache 

under glyph 

in thin glass 

the iron hair and the bending of here 

the streets are a message bordered in black 

pushing the islands 

our task is to push the islands 

to earth 

to iron 

to graph 

to dome 

to glow 

to dim 

magnet moon 

a series of seen 

in thin strands 

pushing the light to draw the voice 

and seen again 

the stories of sound 

and ache and oak and all the birds in the trees that are trying to be red and 

the wolves in the trees and the harp of the river and the atonality of oil 

a unit of moon 

cold to recall unlined 

against a box of glimpse 
all the gluons and stick-ons 
rolling through the clay light 

that steep a vehicle drawing tin toward it 
somewhere past the islands 


protein masses 

inert gases 

and wobbly clank chum hum airhead shudder fuzzy view to you tube 2 click 

and freeze frame over and outside the high hot morph warp into fishbelly 

white expanse suddenly down desert finger groove of rub hollow faster as 

accordion as a cascade clock turn backward to the favorite part or mr. nova 

explaining why my garage door goes like this 

yeah, let's change the channel 

i want to see what kafka's dogs are up to 

moveture: the action scene 

flute scream athena to earth dome night 

this was the poem being offered me on the blade of a knife 

i wanted to tell nick demaria about it 

then everything became a crashing announcement. CRASH! it was telstar 

the hero and this crashing was yellow, hard and shaped like a disk, beyond 

which was something dark— the grave of telstar 

where the sun is a cymbal 

and in this poem 

is a dangerous season, the shore of a surprise, 

and the sound of things dropping 

and clanging 

moveture: a slight reprise 

a design the wonder of why that makes everyone so nervous some scatter 
some minor others chord & straight & phrase i wonder giant singing is that 
really wonder impatient & collapsing the same in rust red hombre shadow 
atom to beehive trumpet blare the same the joy of oboes and eyebrows and 
new oboe work the same the orphic hum of trees the same in the faint 
penumbra of dark sleeping hair or how to turn the mouth into a moment & 
prolong it in the same penumbra of faint red hair & scattered strands in the 
dark forge dark nerve thrill hum of curve & sigh & hair foam gush to unfold 
and embrace it as the fabric that returns us to an hour at the slightest 
movement of singing in the embrace of others to soothe them as they are 
leaving just as we are unclosing again. 

why is that? 

vox machina 

the possibility of enamel 
a precision 

everyone freeze! 

now everyone lightbulb! 

the hyper-real 

like things that are very expensive, 

so expensive they can only be found in catalogs 

lost wax will say to map 
"what is body, volume?" 

and frozen meat will say to you 
"i think we've been here before." 

but they want us to listen carefully 
they want us to correct the machines 
they want layered 
they want reptilian 

and they're looking for someone named "simon" 

luftmensch II: the revenge 

as soon as the door, the deluge, le doulos, which is misfortune, which is a 
history, which is an old film in black-and-white creeping down the back 
stairs, which is a dilemma for some, i was looking for a synonym for 
extricate, but my love was shouting "BRAQUE!"and for a moment, we felt we 
should be floating and angular just like in a museum, then the hotel splendid 
disgorged us. tu t'en souviens? 

a thick eternity, the plaster of talk, the pure mold of it and the sculptural 
effects it creates, from shadow to not-so-light to the memory of 3-d glasses, 
standing next to the moment of this apparatus, as thinking is to writing, and 
what we can see in this city of falling, we know the dislocation mere 
appearance brings, ce n'est pas l'heure du berger. 

it became about foam and speaking through an electric fan. and the towers 
on the horizon, we were all along the drowned highway, spreading, the 
return of the panorama and a troubled voice, hissing, monotonous, endless, 
or else a poem like a sweaty palace, a slow fold, the geology of recognition 
and brilliant collapse, acting with color, the chair is flesh et j'ai lu tous les 

the wind hardened, a cherished arm in the city of smoke, pure outline, pure 
metropolis, what's going on behind the windows? aujourd'hui je reviendrai 
au tombeau de baudelaire. 

antithesis, reversal, catastrophic rhythm, the addition of a corner, a new 
mobility, an interruption— all the look and feel of an accident, a seaweed 
network assembling the views so silver and everything so tomorrow, you 
have reached the size of theater and i am making a point, le livre supprime 
les temps. 

sovereign is our ideal terminated, it is blue-black, a monument, a 
superstition, an education in statistics, water is caustic and universal and is 
moving under our feet, we are drunk on ice, not onyx, c'est pur son! 

say "song" poor to divide the vigil into idyllic, lyric, and headlong flight, i am 
stretching and separating a torn whole from bright to large and then away, 

away as blue, o copper garland upland song, what the west and what the fall? 
ancien ocean, je vous salue! 

half-blind in a wet city, l'autre moitie bagne dans l'obscurite luminuese. 
adapted June of baltimore, June of the strong apposition, all that is needed is 
a slight turn of the head, a length of light to drink the milk of morning and 
sea of the centuries, and then turn away, des ciels gris du cristal. enormous 
in air, inert, or lying flat on the back, everything burns but day. 

moveture: take 5 

in allonym 
in shining 

it sounds so smooth 

ready to fracture 

a way of seeing around corners 


into the cube 

of this cold quartz glance 

then smashed into smithereens 

the science of what is emerging 

the broken and the singing 

the slow motion is now beginning 

blue and enormous 
full noontide glare 

day is so dark as jour 


obliquely, too 

along the edge of the street 
and the music stopped 

and started to fall 

staining the eyes and wrapping 

around the fingers 

trumpet bend 
purple violent 
april blue 

as the note 

is the abstract truth of it 

while we were sitting in rows 

melting horns with flutes 

and obstructing the flow of traffic 

and the day was stopping 

and we were saying that 

we had a taste for stone 

and others have a taste for steam 

and they strike suddenly 

wringing throats in parallel fashion 

chiming and pale flashing 

deep ontic hunger 

dark architraves 

plaster sunset freeze 

and this was strange 

for no one laughed at it 

we were stopping 

with the day 

keeping time of sour color 

slow to moire 

just to listen 

in naive harmony 

and then to be precise 

as our long wax hands 

in the instant of touching it 

in the long blue wax play light 

shifting in and out between worlds 

dance or corridor dark 

to extend this moment 

past the instant of forgetting 

shattered ginnunga gap window deep stretch 

of shadow to o-ring rose 

its cool wax throb stream sequence 

somewhere as sound 

and then somewhere else 

stephane mallarme and robert duncan 
both wrote their homage to verlaine 
hidden in the grass 

i aleph x 

standing in the ruined cities 
where the light is stopping 
and day won't start for a while 

(1 remember reading how when eurydice returned from the underworld, she 
changed her name to agriope, she of the savage face, that could be a scene in 
a new movie by the coen brothers starring umma thurman as lucy lawless 
the warrior actress and John goodman as thor. when i was in the underworld 
i didn't change my name, i just tried to stay hidden and i didn't watch any 
movies, lighting my lamp among the dead, time is passed for prologue J 

walking after midnight, largely diurnal and whirling 

loose hair 
loose change 

tight shoes 

it's the problem with walking everywhere 

and suddenly we are all so thrilled and can't stop flickering 


and out 
of being 

in and out of a dark belly being 
or being somewhere in a state 

to keep walking as a problem is to decipher the future from the cracks in the 


a question of structure vs. agency, and my andalusian dog star man hand, 

man— a critical practical activity. 

philosophy is learning how to stretch the hands thin in shadow without 
leaving the room, it takes a slow hour, a slow surge in hard paper noise, a 
continuum, poverty, and the abolition of parentheses, i mean, prolepsis, not 
metonymy, as misdirection, do maps make you nervous, too? 

now i regret to phonograph, unlike edith piaf. unlike the statue of edith piaf, 
history is something that could shatter a window when you forget to look at 
america. we were lost in it, it was so vast, and there was so much air, and 
skies the gray of the present tense and skies of the clear resemblance, only in 
a circle sky, down and around the drawing of the day we are waiting even 
when every day everyone else in dusty rooms of falling 


falling while looking at the flow of some 

from a time to time to go 

the time of tin and thin bit wire, like looking for a thread in wrap-around 
view, a monumental stare, an inherent lifted from or for the wreckage of a 
name and fragile grammar is outline and now so remote and everyone else is 
out losing money and why someday couldn't come 2 nights ago when we 
were all so ephemeral and full of moments we didn't know where to put 
them, long play a turn sound in dark thin arm, the page of singing, diasporic 
glance of the numbered streets, we are returning a blue thread. 

it's all falling from the hand again, a loud thump, parts of the city, an aerial 
edge, a disjunctive "and", and our misspelled adventures, shaking the 
simulacra and smart-mouthing the zha-zure— that's articulation, the gesture 
is so expansive, now that i think of it, walking is more like an accordion, a 
long stretch through the nunc stans and various stalled vehicles, or a way to 
be a long side of the now, this now in transit, its glass breaking solidity, its 
similarity with what was said and what wasn't, and what is is our refusal to 
remain, still, or some kind of joy. crowded and ringing, every day equals 
every other, an opening an announcing a long appearance, or else a moment 
of silence, like a phonograph, i should be shouting something here, but 
without any periods 


moveture: the title sequence TToAucpAoioPoTo SaAocoaoTo, pronounced 
poluphloisboid thalassoid, a homeric epithet. 

sign and sight is the name of a magazine really— 

"mes bouquins" "my old books," also the title of a poem by mallarme, 
which, in several american editions, is the final poem in the volume. 

luftmensch 1: shooting the symbolic luftmensch is a term in yiddish 
for someone who has wild, crazy schemes and ideas, or else is just 
completely impractical, like someone who can't hold down a job. and yes, 
this and "luftmensch 2" are somewhat autobiographical. 

moveture: the intermission helen wasn't really my aunt, just a family 
friend who was in trouble, unfortunately, i don't know what became of her. 

moveture: garden of the fleshapoids Aoyos "word, story, account, but 
also ratio, proportion, etc. there is a movie from 1965 called sins of the 
fleshapoids set in a post-apocalyptic future, see international movie 
database for more details 

a vox of glimpse i guess this poem is more or less my own numa numa 

luftmensch 2: the revenge this poem contains, among other things, 
some quotations (altered and otherwise), faulty memories, and 
transmogrifications of certain phrases found in works by baudelaire, 
rimbaud, lautremont, mallarme and eric satie (who was imitating/mocking 
verlaine). in addition, it also includes a line from a poem i once found 
written on a scrap of paper in the bibliotheque publique d'information at le 
centre pompidou in paris, and a line from a poem i once wrote many, many 
years ago, my first effort to write something in french. the translations are, 
in order: 

"do you remember?" 

"this is not the hour for lovers" 

"all the books are read" 

"today i will return to the tomb of baudelaire" 

"the book suppresses time." 

"it's pure sound" 

"ancient ocean, i salute you!" 

"the other half bathed in luminous obscurity" 

"skies the gray of crystal" 

and le doulos (the finger man) is the title of a film by jean-pierre melville. 

walking after midnight hat tip to patsy cline, also waiter benjamin and 
mel nichols. 

following a flashlight 

to the vast and ragged space that surrounds the screen 
(after andre bazin)